5 #2
“I’m certain you’ll find better comforts in time,” Aurelias said gently. “Did you ever recall who you were? Find any family who might give you lodgings?”
Hmm. Try plucking the heartstrings.
Her smile wavered, before she hitched it back into place. When she spoke, it was with a kind of brittle brightness, a shield across the sadness underneath. Low Gods knew, the last three years had given her enough practice with the act.
“No. No one came to claim me.” She dropped her gaze. “They must’ve disowned me. Even though I didn’t . . . I don’t even remember it.”
She blinked hurriedly. Aurelias drew breath as though to speak, then gently pressed her hand. For a short while, silence prevailed. Under the guise of blinking back tears, she took another look at her companion.
Military arcani, new to the prefecture, not long back in Carintheum . . . but they only won the war three weeks ago, she thought. A medical discharge, perhaps? Wounded soldiers from the better classes often ended up in light prefecture duties.
No sign of injury, though. Didn’t answer your question about Hjelvak, either. As if he doesn’t want to talk about it.
A suspicion wriggled its way into her mind.
For the prefecture to have sent a man like that to follow her, it meant one of two things.
Either they know who you are, so they’ve put a powerful military arcani on your tail .
. . or they think you’re an innocent dolt, and they’ve sent a drudge to match. Best find out which.
They were passing into the better streets now, and the phaeton traffic was growing thicker. In the corner of her eye, she marked an expensive blue Cordilon Excelsis gliding nearer.
“Across this street, sir,” she announced—and with that, she stepped straight out into the road.
Brakes screeched and a horn blared out. She steeled herself for the impact, hoping the cushioning charms were good ones—
Arms seized her by the waist and dragged her clear. She tumbled to the curb, a light oh! on her lips. The driver shouted something unspeakable at her, then blazed on.
Aurelias cleared his throat and hurriedly drew back. He came to his feet and offered her a hand. She took it, feigning astonishment, and let him pull her upright.
“Good grief. I do beg your pardon!” she exclaimed.
“Not at all. Forgive me. Quite indecorous,” he said, brushing down his coat.
“Less indecorous than the alternative, sir. Now I definitely need a bath.”
Outside, she forced a blush. Inside, she grinned.
He’d shown his colors in an instant, and she liked them.
A battlefield arcani could’ve whisked her out of danger with a thought.
Instead, he’d dashed right out and thrown her to the ground.
No practitioner would risk his dignity like that, let alone his safety.
He didn’t use his powers. He . . . couldn’t use them. Whatever wound had sent him home from the war, it had left him powerless. Unlucky though it was for him, she could have beamed.
It also seemed he was a decent chap. That was a pity. Never take advantage of a decent man, came Hadria’s voice in her memory.
Sorry, old girl, she thought. Not sure I’ll have the choice.
Lastly, he was every bit as handsome at close quarters. Not entirely relevant, perhaps, but nice to know.
Sterling stuff. Well, they evidently don’t know who you really are, she concluded. Time the watchdog sat and stayed.
Lumenia Street was a foretaste of Elysium. The new goods of the empire glittered from behind glass windows, ripe for the picking—provided the picker was filthy rich. Myria was presently closer to the ranks of the richly filthy, but at least the sights came free.
Fine sights they were, too. Bolts of velvet shimmered in the darkness amid silver furs.
Perfumes poured from crystal fountains, filling the air with rose and spices.
Arcanic vials glimmered from glass cases, promising miracles of beauty: silken hair, jewel-bright eyes and a complexion that never aged.
The pavement bustled with ladies and gentlemen of fashion. Their phaetons lined the road, all gorgeous creatures worth more than her life, with sweeping running boards and engines that purred like Safaran tigers.
At the end of the street, Myria stopped. A bathhouse crowned the corner, chimneys pluming violet steam into the sky. Roses twined about its golden marble columns and spilled down across the steps.
“The Seraph’s Rest,” she read. “The remedy for a lady’s every ill. Or so say the advertisements.”
“I imagine,” said the prefect, eyeing up the grand facade. “Do you have the funds?”
“No need. The common baths are free. They make their profits by selling you overpriced nonsense on the way in. Now, should you lay a tracking charm on me? Ensure I don’t take to the wind?”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Miss Rosara,” he said, releasing her arm. “How long shall you be? Half an hour?”
Myria blinked at him, then laughed and shook her head.
“You’re clearly not married, sir,” she said. “After three years away, I defy you to chastise me for being six hours in the place.”
Ought to be enough time to run a few errands without the hound at your heels . . .
Aurelias smiled, as though sharing in the joke, then faltered at her unblinking look.
“Brace yourself for the long, grim watches of the night, soldier,” she said brightly. “Might I suggest a book?”
Myria waited outside the emporium as Aurelias perused the bookshelves. It was joy enough to simply stand there and watch the great bustle of life, breathing the free air, with the plan ticking on inside her mind.
First order of business . . . rustle up some funds.
Before she could get to work, though, she truly did need a bath.
She’d never pass in good society looking and smelling like an old dishcloth.
Still, a little innocent trickery would find her a place in the Seraph’s Rest. Whatever she’d said to Aurelias, they’d never let her past the desk.
She knew that place. A lady practically had to sell her soul to get inside—or someone else’s soul, if she was a proper Carinth aristocrat.
The screech of tires turned her head. An ornate blue-and-gold-enameled phaeton drew up near the bathhouse, where it parked at a decided angle. Five young ladies tumbled out. They were dressed in the newest fashions, and laughing with the kind of abandon that usually signified a liquid breakfast.
The driver slammed her door with a whoosh of lace skirts, then cooed something through the back window. One of the bathhouse footmen slid into place, smooth as clockwork, but the lady whipped the keys out of his reach.
“Don’t. Touch. It,” she said.
“Of course, ma’am. It’s a warm day, though. Perhaps I could attend to—”
“Go,” the lady interrupted. The footman bowed and backed away, throwing an anxious look at the back seat.
“Are you certain, darling?” asked one of her companions. “The last one did die, after all.”
“Oh, pish. I’ve left the window open a crack. Besides, it’s Daddy’s money.”
Myria waited until the bejeweled procession had bustled into the bathhouse, then sidled past the phaeton. At once, she saw the cause of their dispute.
A black pygmy kyrie lay slumped on the rear bench.
Its wings were sprawled out on the seat, its lizard-like head flat on its front paws.
It flicked its little foxtail listlessly about.
It was a glossy pedigree creature, complete with a diamond collar, but it was clearly suffering in the heat.
No wonder. Kyries were native to the glens of Aerin, where it was reckoned a warm summer if the frost had melted by midday.
You poor devil, Myria thought with a frown, glancing up toward the bathhouse. Though I wonder . . . Someone clearly isn’t that attached to her belongings. A little concurrent activity may be in order.
Aurelias soon emerged with his book. Myria bid him farewell and marched into the Seraph’s Rest.
She’d come right on time for the morning rush.
There was such a crowd of ladies in the vestibule that no one spared a look for her—nor noticed when she slipped through the servants’ door to the left.
They’d never let her into the baths alongside the high and mighty, but there was always a back way in.
Myria strode down the narrow service corridor that edged the building. Following the noise, she turned right at the end and emerged into the palpitating heart of the bathhouse.
Steam hit her like a storm front. A cart piled high with linen almost ran her down at once, driven by a frizz-haired maid in white.
Disguise.
Myria snatched a cap and apron from the washing lines, tied them on and followed the maid out.
Tradesmen jostled her as she marched down the servants’ corridors.
The terracotta scent of burning sunstone led her on.
She turned left, trotted down a thin staircase, then stepped out into a pit of hellish radiance.
There—the furnaces. They blazed like demons’ eyes behind iron grilles, pumping steam up to the baths above. The billowing heat threw a sheen of perspiration across her skin. Spidery black silhouettes moved back and forth, hauling pulleys and tossing sunstone down flumes.
In the relief of the fires, she was no more than a shadow in deep darkness. Myria ghosted through the room, scanning for a staircase; there was bound to be a way up to the service corridors that ran behind the baths. A moment later, she spotted a workman’s door on the far side and headed for it.
A servant shoved past her with a tray of reddish-orange vials. Her fingers had pilfered one before her mind caught up. When she stole a look at the vial, she grinned. Liquid corsca. They used it to make the furnaces burn as hot as the underworld, and it had a stink to match. That’d come in handy.